


Thy King Will Come, Thy Will Be Done

by TheMostePotente



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur and Merlin bodyswitch and Arthur gleefully discovers Merlin's ginormous peen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy King Will Come, Thy Will Be Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marguerite_26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/gifts).



> Originally written for Maggie's birthday in 2010.

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Thy King Will Come, Thy Will Be Done

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_Across the room, yet face to face_  
 _You find that you shall take the place_  
 _And form and body of another._

_Mind within shall change its shell_  
 _And all there is to break this spell_  
 _The first kiss of fated lovers._

The last words escape with your dream. Ah, yes, your dream. A recurring dream, certainly one of your favourites. Visions of well-endowed scullery maids. Fair-haired grooms attending destriers. Foreign knight-errants who indulge you with winks after too much wine. And your manservant, big-eared and slack-smiled and neckerchiefed, the buffoon. It is how you preface your day.

The words are gone, lost on a parched tongue and there is no glass of water on your bedside table to loose them. You will have words for Merlin once you gain your wits and your tongue. A gentle sniff of the air and you find the bitter alchemic scent of transmutation, not the Far-east jasmine you favour. Something is wrong, and you open your eyes in confusion. You stand with Gaius, and you are looking down at Merlin. Only you are not you, and he is not himself. He is wearing your face, and he looks like a tart with your blond hair.

Your beautiful morning just took a turn for the worse.

"Leave us," you command. Not surprisingly, your voice sounds strange in Merlin's body.

Gaius leaves but not before he parries a look of pity. For whom you cannot say.

"Don't look at me so strangely," he says. "Can you imagine my shock at waking up in your body?" 

A compliment or an insult, you know not which, and you frown in contemplation. 

He paces like a caged tiger, and you wince in sympathy. Apparently, he's forgotten that you pulled a muscle training your knights. "It's a spell, a powerful spell. My guess is Nimueh. Have you any ideas on how we might break the enchantment, sire?"

You love when he addresses you as _sire_. It arouses in you something you dare not speak. "A potion," you suggest. "A draught from one of Gaius's tomes?" 

"Possibly. He's gone to the archive to research. In the meantime, we must go about our days normally."

You stumble out of bed with a laugh. If he thinks you are doing his menial tasks to keep up appearances, he is sorely mistaken. "There is a joust at noon. I would rather die than look a fool." Proudly, you hold your chin up. Already, you must look a fool. His smile tells you as much.

Would that you could see the position of the sun, you could estimate the time. As it stands, you are in Merlin's humble quarters. You frown when your feet touch the cold flagstones.

"It is just after eight," he tells you. "We have time. Gaius will come through." He slumps in a chair by the table, and you inwardly curse his poor posture. You would never sit in such a manner. 

"We will stay here for the time being," you advise, and you wander about looking for a heel of bread or a hunk of cheese. Gaius's worktable is a menagerie of bottles and flasks. There are powders and herbs and everything a court physician requires to heal the sick. There is a jar of medicinal snails, to what purpose you could not possibly imagine. You think they are dead until you rattle the glass with a stirring rod. The face you make reflects in the glass, and you stick your tongue out in spite.

Your stomach is growling with hunger. Rather, _his_ stomach. You are able to control your urges. Only not now, because there he sits, a green apple held in his mouth like a suckling pig before he takes a bite. You glance at Gaius's abacus, and you want to hit him over the head with it, but not before you calculate the ways in which you'd like to throttle Merlin. The predicament _must_ be your manservant's fault.

And that's when you notice it. That bulge in your breeches that demands your attention. Discreetly you turn and peer down the length of your body into your small clothes. Your eyes widen in disbelief. Merlin's cock is huge. So huge that you could strap a boulder to it and catapult it over the walls of Camelot. Dear Gods, you panic, what must he think of mine? So much for your hastily given nickname of _questing beast_. He starts at your growl of displeasure. 

His laughter is brittle. "Oh right, _that_. I do apologise, sire, I have a bit of a control issue in the morning."

"A bit?" you cry. The rather large bulge tents the front of your breeches obscenely. You could shoe ten horses with it, and you turn around to show him how fool you look.

His eyes are glazed, and he's mumbling something incoherently. If you didn't know better, you'd say the imbecile was daydreaming.

"What are you doing?" you ask, and you consider dunking his neckerchief in that jar of pickled snails.

"N-n-nothing," he stutters, and he ambles over to you. 

It's not the first time you've encountered him doing something stupid, but nothing, _NOTHING_ could prepare you for what he does next. 

"I will take care of that for you, sire. So you don't have to." 

He drops to one knee and you look down utterly scandalised at the sight of yourself at his crotch. Forget the horseshoeing, you think. You want to use his cock to drive the nails in both your coffins.

He promises it will not take long, and you have only his good word to keep you steady. 

You cannot bear to look down upon yourself through his eyes, so you shut them tightly, but not before you right the tunic on his left shoulder. There is a freckle there that you hadn't noticed before.

"Thy king will come, thy will be done," he grins before he takes you in his mouth.

You want to argue you're still a prince, but you're not even that now. 

If Merlin is uncomfortable sucking his own cock, he does not show it. Rather, he is passionate about it like it was part of his fucking job, and he performs this task with thrice the enthusiasm he does when he polishes your armour or sharpens your sword. It seems as though he's done this before, and you hope to the heavens it wasn't with Lancelot. Your stomach tightens in jealousy and you thrust your pelvis forward so that he chokes a little on the imagined indiscretion. 

Curiosity has been known to kill more than just cats, and you open your eyes. It's a peculiar sight, but you take the time to enjoy the aerial view. You could count the times you have been on your knees on one hand, and they were mostly when you were a babe. In fact, you don't expect to be on your knees again until your coronation, and who knows when that will be. You wonder if you will remember any of this if and when the spell is reversed, and you start to weigh the pros and cons while you consider your jousting opponent's smug face upon hearing of your surrender. 

You thrust for all you are worth, and he sucks for all he is worth and together you achieve what is necessary for you to come. He extends his tongue as though he were waiting for the first snowflakes of winter to fall, and you empty into the warm, wet mouth patiently waiting before you, its lips red and swollen, tongue pink and rigid. A few drops wet the long eyelashes Morgana is forever telling you are too girly for your otherwise chiselled features.

He stills for a moment, and you could swear you hear him sigh. You have the inexplicable urge to run your fingers through that tumbledown mess of dark hair, that is, until you realise it's blond and unremarkable.

You give him a hand up, and then you tuck that enormous cock back into your small clothes and breeches. There's an awkward silence that passes before he smiles that big, goofy smile of his, and suddenly your pros are outweighing your cons. You find the first bit of cloth (which happens to be the red neckerchief) and toss it to him so that he can clean up. He goes about his way of worrying, and you go about yours. When he isn't looking, you glance his way and grin. He is your manservant, and you wouldn't have it any other way. 

Four turns of the hourglass later, Gaius still hasn't returned, and you are growing ever impatient. You have your father to thank for that flaw, and you wonder why you can't sit still like Merlin, his only movements the swift and silent parting of lips. You wonder what he could be saying to himself only to dismiss it as babble. He is smartest when he is speechless, after all.

You eat an apple as you turn the hourglass for the last time, punctuating your impatience with loud crunches. He finally stands and faces you, a look of utter defeat on his face. "It's time," he says, and you concede with a nod. Your father will not understand this decision to quit, and you had better feign your illness convincingly. Tired, hungry and frustrated, you follow him to the lists.

You push him forward, and it seems odd that he should be doing your bidding, but he will have to be the one to forfeit. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gaius waving frantically and pantomiming a kiss. It takes you a moment to riddle this out, but then it strikes you like a flash of stray lightning. So, this is what breaks the sorceress's spell? Leave it to the women to balance the furies with folly and mad genius.

You haven't a moment to spare, and you make a frantic dash for Merlin. It is you who will have to sacrifice to save face, your only reward the knowledge that only you two shall know. Grabbing the sides of his face, you kiss him roughly, and there is a terrific jolt as you slip back into your respective bodies. Your father looks murderous, but you counter-balance his anger with Morgana's laughter. Your final thought before you suit up and humble your arrogant competitor? That stupid abacus and all the ways in which you will calculate how Merlin will please you.

-=The End=-


End file.
